Charlize Theron

In life, I hate vertical blinds. But on Charlize Theron, I think I can live with them.

It's an odd concept for a dress: The top is sort of half-window treatment, half-binder, and from the hips down it looks like someone shredded a piece of that old computer paper that had the perforated strip of holes running down both sides. And yet, I like it. There's something cool about it. And while I suspect that something cool might be the six-foot-infinity blonde around whom it's wrapped, it might also be that there's a weird aura of Interpretive Body Armor about it. Like she's some kind of fashion warrior. If vertical blinds looked that funky on their own, I'd be living in an entire den of them.

When I saw this photo of Charlize Theron, the second thing I thought -- after wondering if she's slightly over-tweezed, or if it's just me -- was, "She is pretty. Stuart Townsend looks like he just realized he has a piece of spinach on his teeth and he's desperate to keep it hidden, but she seems happy and she's probably wearing something cute." Then I concluded, per usual, that she could probably poke her legs through a giant handbag and pull it off with, if not ease, something approaching aplomb.

Of course, then I saw the full-length photo.

Obviously, Charlize Theron is really, really attractive. Let's not even pretend that she isn't. She's one of those people who'd look semi-decent in a wooden barrel, inducing someone somewhere to gasp "I had no idea that barrels are so deliciously cylindrical! I must have one for fall!" So, sometimes it's hard to me to tell if her outfit is actually cute, or if I were to, say, put it on my own body I would react thusly: "OH MY GOD NO. NO NO NO NO. GET IT OFF MEEEEE."

Like this one. It's bright and shiny and blouse-y and bag-ish and I am distracted by all the gathering and pleating. But she sort of carries it off, no? Or yes? Or no.

It's getting a little tiresome to see the otherwise lovely Charlize Theron constantly looking so pinched and borderline duck-billed. It's not a problem she has all the time; just a good percentage of it, so I don't think DNA is the issue. Hard to say what the true culprit is, though: I don't know if it's a trick of makeup, or if she needs a better red-carpet coach to remind her that she can smile a little and still look sleek, or if she is just plagued by chronic canker sores burning their ulcerous ways through her gums. Whatever the problem, I hope she fixes it, because she's too pretty to keep running around looking perma-puckered.

First, let me say that I love Charlize's shoes. But I'm distressed that she's moved into body-hugging, stretchy faux-lace, the likes of which 1980s Madonna eyeball with a sneer and then dismiss immediately as "too obvious, too tacky."

But most gravely, this stretchy sheath very nearly caused us to put out an APB on her nipples. Not because we hoped to see her nipples -- indeed, if the freezing-cold sets of Friends taught us anything, it's that sometimes we really don't need proof of nip at every opportunity -- but because, well, where would they be here? Shouldn't they be... somewhere? The imprisoning cut mangles her chest, so could they be smooshed under the black bar? But isn't that awfully low for her nipples? And isn't it too early to fly south for the winter?

After a good long time of staring and gaping and wincing, we finally realized that the nude liner goes all the way up into a bra-shaped top, and is just very well hidden to the point of being fear-inducing. So her nipples probably are safe, and in the right place. But chalk that whole debate up as a monstrous negative against this dress, which is officially doing her chest zero justice. At all. Any dress that draws stares of abject brow-furrowed concern about the freakish absence or unnatural drift of your nipples is not, I would suggest, a good dress.

Charlize Theron goes for her third Oscar nomination in as many years for a role in which she uglifies herself:

Unfortunately, The Sad Tale of the Serial Killer Christmas Bow That Just Wants Union Representation does not have very good buzz.

Here in Los Angeles, there is no day more sacred than Oscar Sunday.  The entire town shuts down, as those who have not spent the last month in a frenzy of dieting, bleaching, waxing, colonics, or bribes all trek frantically across the city bearing dips and drinks....and dreams. And nowhere is more frenzied than GFY HQ, as the office rings with the clack-clack of the teletype, screams of agony over the proper structure of Ziyi Zhang's name, and the constant moaning, "won't someone please wear something ugly?"

Those prayers, of course, were answered in the form of Charlize Theron's Massive Shoulder Wound-Bow. And in countless other ways that we plan to mercilessly enumerate...as soon as we crawl out of what we call the Clooney Coma: a very serious but incredibly pleasant form of paralysis that takes over the average American once she's spent over an hour looking at George Clooney in a classic tux. Neither of your faithful fuggers can bear to be bitchy when in the throes of the Clooney Coma. And, readers, we have it. We have it bad. Experts predict that we won't snap out of it until approximately noon, PST.

At which point, we promise, the fugs will fly fast and furious and no one -- no one! -- will be spared.

Except Clooney. Just look at him:

Sigh. 

Until noon, faithful readers. Stay alive. We will find you.

Proving that anything can happen, here we have an uncharacteristic misstep from the usually beautifully-dressed, and always generally beautiful Charlize Theron:

Unless she's pregnant, which, judging from photos of her just two days ago, she isn't, or en route to a toga party, the shape of this gown is a huge mistake.  It's simply not flattering, although I will give her that it looks comfortable.  But so is my bathrobe, and I certainly don't wear that out in public. You know, usually.

And in addition to the fact that the cut is an Homage To Potato Sack Races, the color is pretty disasterous. I always say, if you're going to wear a toga, at least go Roman in a jazzy hue.  But poor Charlize decided to get all Salute to Cement up in that dress's grill, and who can sign off on that?